I hate unpacking the boxes of things that I kept from my mother's apartment. I did three of them today and every single thing in each of those boxes hurt my heart as I put it away. My eyes still stung hours after I'd finished and moved on to other things, grief following me around like a raincloud. I know that someday I'll be able to tell someone, "Oh, that was my mother's" in an offhand, matter-of-fact way-I just don't know how I'll ever get there.
(Post script~I got the love/hate prompt for this post from Ginny Marie. Thanks, Ginny!)